


A Quiet Moment Before Dawn

by Abracabadger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Browlmance, Gen, Is it dusty in here?, Missing Scene, Owl-centric, Pigvision, Sad, The Burrow, Weasley Family, Whoo - eyelash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 04:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abracabadger/pseuds/Abracabadger
Summary: The last days of an unsung hero, by one who was there.





	A Quiet Moment Before Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> A little one-shot, written in a couple of hours this morning.
> 
> For Dusk and Kmila, and all the lovely folks on the HG Discord, for the laughs and endless encouragement of my word crimes.

===//oo\\\===

I perk up on my perch. I can feel him approach, hear his wings, and there’s no mistaking the slow, faltering beats that mark the end of another lung-busting journey. Not that anyone pays any mind to me, they’re all gathered around the table at the heart of their huge, lopsided nest, even my Bond. Big Red, I call him. He’s still growing, too, a long, thin fledgeling yet to fill out. 

I catch sight of him at the last second, just a glimpse as he pulls his wings in to pass through the open slot above the birdbath on the bench, and I leap into the air, half in excitement and half in warning, but it’s too late. Those huge, grey wings are a fraction too slow to open again, too exhausted to stretch and catch the air, and he barely misses Nest Ruler before he crashes full-length along the table, sending things flying. They all leap to their feet as well, while food crashes and water splashes and things splatter.

> _-Catch him, Mum!_
> 
> _Oh, by Merlin, not again!_
> 
> _Useless, bloody bird!_

_He’s back! He’s back! He’s back! He’s back!_

> _For Merlin’s sake, Ron, catch that bloody owl of yours and shut him up, will you! Daft thing!_

I know they’re talking about me, but somehow I can’t stop. It’s the way we are, my kind. We’re one of the smallest of the family, not like _him_, and we live _fast_. Energy runs through our blood, electrifying it. Muscles twitch, wings itch, eyes alert and darting. Ready to hunt, ready to fly, ready for anything.

Nest Ruler’s Mate picks him up out of a bowl at the far end of the table, milk running off his bedraggled feathers, and shakes his head sadly. 

> _Oh, _Errol!

I’m trying to find a perch, somewhere I can land and see, but my wings just won’t stop, not even when Big Red lunges at me and I have to dodge his hands.

> _Stupid little feathery git!_

Nest Ruler’s Mate is carrying him over to the perch in the corner, the one with water and food, and carefully sets him upright, holding him until those tired talons can grasp properly, and only then does he relieve him of his burden.

> _Really, Arthur, poor old Errol can’t keep doing this. _
> 
> _Yeah, Dad. Let him retire gracefully, he must have earned it by now._
> 
> _Gracefully? Didn’t you just see that? He wiped out the entire table!_

Behind him, the others gradually resume their perches around the table. It’s impossible not to hear the irritation and frustration in their voices, and my heart aches at the unfeeling rejection of a servant who has burst every sinew for his Bond. Don’t they see how tired he is? How hard he has pushed himself in his duty? Don’t they _care?_

> _Let’s see how you cope when you’re his age, Fred!_

Little Red is on his side, at least. She may not be my Bond, but she’s the one who named me. _Pigwidgeon_. I wonder what it means? I’m me, after all. 

Finally, I find a perch on the top of a cabinet, flare and land, and then the impulse takes me again. This time I flutter over to the perch, landing on the far end so as not to disturb him. His head swivels tiredly and bobs in greeting with that stately, old-fashioned grace of the truly noble owls. Those great, half-lidded orbs, clouded now with age, watch as I hop along and press myself up against his side, trying to bolster his spirit with the community of a fellow owl. He shifts a little, but does not complain, does not pull away, and my heart swells once more. _He truly is everything it means to be a Bonded owl_.

All too soon, hands close around me, and I find myself pulled away.

> _Not now, Pig, let him rest, for goodness’ sake!_

I struggle briefly on reflex, then relax. It’s Nest Ruler’s Mate.

> _Ron, take your owl up to your room, please. I don’t think Errol’s in a state to put up with him at the moment._
> 
> _I don’t think any of us are in a state to put up with him._

My head turns to look back at him, but those eyes have shut. He’s asleep, or nearly so.

> _But I haven’t finished breakfast!_
> 
> Now_, Ron._

Nest Ruler’s voice is iron-firm, and I hear the grumbling of my Bond and the scrape of his perch against the hard floor, and then his hands take me. I know he doesn’t mean it, nor the names he mutters on the way up to his roost. After all, haven’t I just delivered for him, too? A letter to Black Thatch, delivered under the grudging eyes of his Bond. She’s the most gorgeous owl I have ever seen, snowy white, with cute little spats over her talons. Pfft, as if she’d ever look at a little owl from the lower orders like me, though…

And yet another letter to Bushy Brown, of course. He talks about her a lot, alone up in his roost. The number of times this summer that he’s flopped down and I’ve sat on his chest and listened to him mumbling on about her, stroking my feathers. Perhaps he wants her as Mate. Perhaps she’s like Black Thatch’s Bond, a sultry beauty that _knows_ she’s far too good for him – and he knows it, too. Maybe we’re not so different, my Bond and I.

===//oo\\\===

It is inevitable. I know it will happen to us all. Big Red had sent me back to the nest with a letter. Perhaps he knew, somehow, too. Either way, I’m just so grateful I was there.

I rest on the perch beside the water bowl and pant, my aching wings drooping slightly because I am alone and no-one can see my slovenly stance in my exhaustion. It is so very far from the big stone nest in the north where Big Red and Little Red and Black Thatch and Bushy Brown are. I forced myself to keep pace, to drive forward. After all, it’s what _he_ would do. 

A sudden thump on the sill of the open slot above the birdbath on the bench makes me jump, and immediately pull myself into a more dignified stance, fluffing out my feathers and tucking my wings away with them. It is _him_. He’s back, too, from an unsuccessful hunt or simply a night flight, but he crouches awkwardly on the sill, gasping for breath, and ignores my chirp. The slot is too small for an owl of his great stature, why don’t they see this? Slowly, those barred wing stretch out once more and he glides to the perch.

Something is wrong.

_Something is wrong_. His breath labours, I can feel him shake. His eyes don’t seem to focus. Slowly, in what seems like awful slow-motion, he topples forward and off the perch. I leap into the air in agitation, the burning ache in my wings forgotten. It’s not the first time this has happened, of course, which is why Nest Ruler’s Mate has put the little net below the perch to catch him, but this time he does not move, does not clamber upright again, does not shift to lie more comfortably, simply lays as he landed, in a heap with his head thrown out awkwardly and one wing half-trapped beneath himself. 

Something is wrong.

Panic surges through me, bringing a new burst of energy to tired wings. I know what I must do, and hurl myself towards that open slot and out into the night. I circle the nest in agitation, wings driving me upwards. If I time it just right, angle it just right, I can _just_ fit through the half-open window of their roost.

Success! I can’t help an excited twitter. Nest Ruler and her Mate are in their bed and, hooting frantically all the while, I fly down beside his head and pull desperately on his hair. Come on, _hurry!_ Why won’t you wake up? I have to dodge a flailing arm, and I hear them mutter and curse and finally sit up, but they’re too late, I’m already airborne again. Come on, _hurry_!

> _What on earth-_
> 
> _It’s that ridiculous owl of Ron’s! For Merlin’s sake, Arthur, take him downstairs and put him in the cage! I told you-_
> 
> _I know, dear, I know._

Light suddenly flares, making my eyes contract painfully, but I can still see enough to dart in and perch briefly on his shoulder, tugging his hair, and away again before he can grab me. Come on, come on, come _on! _Nest Ruler’s Mate climbs out of bed and I dart over to the door, hovering for a second before I have to twist and swoop away to build up flying speed again, then it’s back to the door again.

> _What on earth are you doing, Pig?_

I don’t care to listen, just that he’s moving, he’s coming towards me, and I flit out of the way long enough for him to open the door and then I swoop out in to the corridor, dodging his half-hearted grab. He trudges slowly down the stairs, and I land briefly on his shoulder again before the urge sends me on ahead of him, this time in front of the kitchen door where I’m still twittering at the top of my voice. 

We do that same little dance again while he opens it, and I dart past him and over to the perch. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t moved. He’s still lying there in that little net, but… yes, I see his chest rise feebly. We’re not too late. Nest Ruler’s Mate is right behind me. 

> _Now then, come here, you- Oh. Oh, no. Oh, Errol!_

Realisation and sorrow war in his voice. His hands reach down and scoop up his faithful Bond carefully, tenderly, tucking his wings in by his sides and catching his head when it lolls to the side. Respectfully, I fly up to perch on the top of the cabinet out of the way.

> _Oh, my dear old friend. _Molly?
> 
> _What is it, dear?_
> 
> _Can you bring my old dressing gown down, please?_

I hear the creak and sigh of wood far above me, and then the slow thump of feet on the stairs. Nest Ruler’s Mate takes him to the table and slumps onto a perch, stroking his handsome, grey plumage gently. He doesn’t look up when Nest Ruler enters, a rather ragged towelling garment in her hand.

> _What is it, Arthur? Oh. Oh, you poor old thing._

I can hear the sadness in her voice, and it chimes with my own. Together, they carefully build a nest on the table for him, swaddling him warmly in Nest Ruler’s Mate’s robe. He doesn’t react. He can no longer react. Does he know they are there? I hope he does. He must. The Bond knows. 

Nest Ruler busies about the stove, and soon settles next to her Mate, with steaming mugs that will slowly grow cold, untouched. I fly down and land on the back of a perch next to them, and join them in their vigil.

> _Oh, Mollywobbles. Do you remember that day we got him at Eeylops, when you were pregnant with Bill? I wanted that pretty Screech owl, but you picked Errol out, instead._
> 
> _Of course. And we only got him because I was worried about being lonely during the day. Fab and Gid would come by when they could, and Mother, of course, but I must have just about worn him out until Bill was born. I told you we needed a strong flyer._
> 
> _He brought me the healer’s letter when you went in to St Mungo’s, too. I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast to find a floo, before or since._
> 
> _He’s had a fine innings, hasn’t he? A great owl, indeed._

They talk on and off through the remainder of the night, but neither of them move. My letter lies forgotten on the table. It is my duty, but I cannot bring myself to mind. As a grey band forms on the horizon, the same shade as his feathers, he finally surrenders. The chest stills, the wings relax.

Nest Ruler nuzzles her Mate gently, and I cannot resist a low, mournful croon.

He is gone.

Together, they wrap him gently in that old robe, the one that smells of his Bond, and walk slowly outside. Neither of them notice that I join them, flitting from wall to branch to trellis, watching as they find a quiet corner of their garden. Nest Ruler’s Mate fetches an implement from the creaky old shed full of spiders and digs a hole, then reverently lays him down one final time. Dawn is breaking as Nest Ruler’s Mate covers him over and places a little wooden perch at the head of his resting place. They stand there for a long while, huddled together like owls themselves, before turning and slowly walking back into their nest.

I do not join them. Instead, my heart brimming over, I glide on silent wings to settle onto that little wooden perch above his grave and listen to the day birds singing a eulogy for the greatest post owl I have ever known.

===//oo\\\===


End file.
